


Choked

by ianavi



Series: Short Ends [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Unsure Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost and ill equipped to act upon his desires. He wants to say something, can taste the words forming against his palate and hitting the back of his teeth. Whole conversations imagined but every one ending in disgust and rebuttal. Surely there was an unspoken agreement, trust between them, and he was already in breach. It was just a question of time one moment severed from the continuum of everyday routines and brought them to a standstill. He felt it was fast approaching. He felt doomed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choked

Another repeat of their frequent evening exchange, framed by savory scents and low whispers of the radio. "Come to the table."

"Busy." He looked at the rain-soaked street scene below him and proceeded to slowly and with deliberation roll up his shirt sleeves, evening out the folding fabric to perfect symmetry without taking his eyes away from the window. It had been a long and tiring day of digging through an archive as the references he needed eluded him through far too many dusty tomes, their pages heavy with a musty smell he felt had imprinted onto his skin and the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. He really should shower and change, and yet he did not want to leave the room and the domestic evening atmosphere he found comforting. Although he'd never admit to it aloud. Clearing the lingering taste of aged paper with a stiff cough he ran the fingers of his left hand across his throat. An itchy thirst. For water and much more.

Frequently spent working and chasing down intellectual pursuits his sleepless nights had recently taken on another color. The evening, their evening, had become a teasing lull that upon closing of his bedroom door gave in to violent storms, his body and mind restless and unforgiving. There was now a constant hum of internal want and aggravation that seeped into and corrupted his few hours of uneasy slumber with depictions of skin, lips, breath. Only to spill out into painful wakefulness leaving him breathless, aroused, straining to hear the faintest reverberations from the other bedroom.

And he was tired of it, his apprehensive restraint, his cowardice, his own hand palming his throat. He let his head slowly fall until his forehead rested against the cool glass. That helped for the briefest moment.

Lost and ill equipped to act upon his desires. He wants to say something, can taste the words forming against his palate and hitting the back of his teeth. Whole conversations imagined but every one ending in disgust and rebuttal. Surely there was an unspoken agreement, trust between them, and he was already in breach. It was just a question of time one moment severed from the continuum of everyday routines and brought them to a standstill. He felt it was fast approaching. He felt doomed.

A grunt and sound of fork set on the side of a plate with a bit more force than necessary. The scratch of the chair being pushed back and determined steps approaching him. He composed his features and began to turn around.

"No." John looked at him hard and shook his head.

"I..." His voice failed him as he saw one hand reach out towards him and then felt a sure grip of callused fingers around his elbow. The tug forward dismissed his full-body tremble and he felt himself pulled towards the kitchen. He followed breathless, his eyes pinned to the point of contact, his skin pleasantly warm under the too tight grip that hinted at muscle, at determination, at familiarity. It was overwhelming and he was losing track of why this was happening. A hard knock of one knee against the side of the kitchen chair and he was steered to sit down. The hand brushed up his bicep and settled as a heavy weight on his shoulder pressing him down for a moment as if to anchor him to the chair.

He reached for his abandoned elbow with his other hand to rub against the imprints he imagined were there, hoped were there and would shade his skin with marks he could revisit. He knew he was blushing, his breath was rushed, it was obvious. Continuing to rub the sore spot he looked at the other man and was met with a gaze that spoke at once of irritation and tenderness. There was something very intimate in their silent exchange and he failed to repress a shiver that took hold of him.

"Now eat."


End file.
